Nobody in Particular(14)
Danni, however, does not seem to share my feelings. “Yeah,” she says, “I miss my friends, for sure. Especially my best friend.”
Well, if these two get along swimmingly, what does that say about Danni? At Molly’s party, I thought maybe I saw a spark of wit about her. Perhaps, sadly, I imagined it. I was, after all, hideously sober and bored.
“That must be weird. It’ll get better soon, though. You’ll forget all about your old friends soon.”
Danni lifts an eyebrow, bemused. “I hope not.”
Harriet scrambles. “No, I don’t mean forget forget. Just that you won’t miss them so badly.”
“Right.”
“Obviously you won’t forget them. God, imagine?”
As much as I want to distract myself from Molly’s iciness, this particular conversation is physically paining me to eavesdrop on, so my relief is monumental when Eleanor catches my attention. “How did last night go?” she asks me, and I can tell at once she’s not asking in the general sense.
“The same as usual,” I say, as quietly as I can get away with. “Passive-aggressive comments from half the people I spoke to, and pity from the other half.”
Eleanor winces. “I don’t know which is worse.”
“At least the pity is coming from a good place,” I say. “It’s the glee I can’t stand. When you can just tell they’re thrilled I misstepped, because they’ve been waiting for it since I was a toddler.”
“Misstepped is an interesting way to put it,” Molly says, very quietly, and I regret my word choice at once.
“You’re right,” I say calmly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for being honest about how you see things.”
Well, that’s a loaded comment if I’ve ever heard one. Still, at least she’s acknowledging me. “I don’t see it like that at all,” I say. “Honestly, I’m tired. I haven’t slept much.”
“I know,” Molly says. “You were up all night suffering through passive-aggression. I don’t know how you got through it.”
“All I mean to say,” I catch her gaze out of the corner of my eye, “is that I’m running out of patience for people who won’t simply say what they mean. I can handle criticism. I deserve it, even. So, why not dole it out?”
Molly turns to me coolly. “I guess the thing is, you don’t get to choose what consequences you get for your behavior. That’s why they’re consequences.”
Eleanor glances from me to Molly, something akin to panic on her features. “You know,” she says at full volume, waving her spoon at us. “Everyone is so obsessed with pumpkin soup, but I really don’t get the hype. Give me potato and leek any day.”
Molly and I stare back at her blankly.
“Right?” Eleanor prods. “Molly?”
Molly shrugs and pushes her half-empty bowl away from her.
Eleanor turns pleading eyes onto me. She’s spot-on, of course. This is neither the time nor the place for Molly and me to have it out.
Tomorrow, I think, I will make a point of claiming a seat next to Eleanor. Even if I have to chain her to my side.
SEVEN
DANNI
My piano instructor, Caroline Al Sarraj, knows her shit. So she should, I guess—she used to play for the Royal Symphony Orchestra before she became a private tutor. She doesn’t only work for Bramppath—apparently there aren’t enough of us who play piano and the harp, her specialties, for it to be worth it. So, she comes here on Tuesdays and Fridays.
I’m nervous as hell when I play for her—she’s a literal symphony pianist, of course I am—but she doesn’t even try to put her critiques in a compliment sandwich. With Caroline—at least, for the first part of our lesson—it’s criticism on the rocks, hold the ice. Slow down, speed up, more emotion, ease up on the pedal. She even tells me to smooth out my legato, and my old teacher, Mrs. Fitch, always told me I was a natural at legato.
To be clear, it’s the first time I’ve been challenged in piano in a really long time, and I’m fucking living for it. I’m buzzing. Honestly, it’s still blowing my mind that I get to work with someone who’s achieved everything I could ever imagine with her piano career, and then some. I’m reminded why I fell in love with piano to begin with. The knowledge that, if I put in the time and effort, I can produce something beautiful. I can make other people feel what I’m feeling.
It’s kind of like being given a spell book and a wand. Music’s the closest thing we’ve got to practical magic, and I’m finally about to level up after more than a year of being stuck and stagnant.
I think I love it here.
And as much as I appreciate a good compliment sandwich, I’ll admit it makes things ten times sweeter when, at the end of the lesson, Caroline leans back so she can get a better look at me and says, “I see why Bramppath wanted you. You’ve got a lot of talent. I think with some work, you could really go far.”
I’m pretty sure if I smiled any bigger she would’ve been tempted to throw in another critique to knock me down a peg again. As it is, she gives me a stern look up and down, like she’s trying to measure me up for something. I guess I pass, because she gathers up her stuff for the next lesson and walks me to the ballroom door. “How are you settling in?” she asks as we go, her fingertips fluttering down the edges where her rose-gold hijab meets her face. You know a room’s huge when you have to make small talk to fill in the time it takes to cross it.